


duty bound

by spookykingdomstarlight



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Post-Season/Series 06, Reunions, Will No Doubt Be Jossed Soon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-11
Updated: 2017-07-11
Packaged: 2018-11-22 11:06:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11378928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spookykingdomstarlight/pseuds/spookykingdomstarlight
Summary: Grief strikes her again, this time entwined with longing. Honor compels her to protect Sansa. Honor compels her to obey Sansa’s desires. A small, very small, verypersonalpiece of her honor compels her to do as Sansa asks simply because it will bring her closer to Jaime again, Jaime who may be in need of assistance, Jaime who needs to understand just how dire things have become. The south is so different from the North. They still pretend that Winter is not a threat to them.She would warn Jaime if she could.





	duty bound

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thinlizzy2](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thinlizzy2/gifts).



Word travels slowly in the North, especially now. Roads and paths that had been clear for years are now blocked and if it isn’t snowdrifts that utterly reshape the landscape, it’s roaming bands of White Walkers determined to skirmish. Before, Brienne would never have considered the North a claustrophobic place. Now, she’s not so sure. Even ravens have a hard time finding their destinations. Messages are lost as easily as one’s footing on the ice that dots the grounds of Winterfell. Though the wilds are as vast as ever, there is so little room to maneuver.

It is for this reason, and this reason alone, that she is fearful when Lady Sansa summons her on the same day seven night-black birds fly in from the south. It is a gut-deep fear, nothing rational, she’s aware. News from the south is not so unusual. And yet, a cloud of despair descends over her as thick and true as the gray that blankets the sky constantly now.

“Ser Brienne,” Sansa says, because she has grown into a fine diplomat and a friend and more than that besides. Brienne would protect her with her life, would fight for her, would kill for her if asked. She has grown so cold, Sansa has, and yet her voice remains kind when she speaks Brienne’s name. Whether she needs something or requires council or simply wishes to talk, she has retained her kindness. “My bro— _brother_ has received word. From King’s Landing.” Her hands twist around a thin, tight coil of paper and her eyes fall to the floor. There is a severity in her eyes when she speaks of Jon Snow now and Brienne has yet to suss out the cause on her own. It is not her place to pry, so she refuses to ask. “Cersei has taken the throne.”

Brienne has learned to bite her tongue; she has learned some discretion. She does not gasp. Her eyes widen, but the surprise is lost on Sansa, who still will not meet her gaze. “There’s more, milady, is there not?”

“They say that wildfire has destroyed the Great Sept.” Sansa finally looks up at Brienne. Suddenly, she is so much younger. So much like the girl she’d been at Joffrey’s abominable wedding. “Margaery is dead.”

Grief, more grief than Brienne had known could still exist inside of her, strangled her about her throat, punched hard at her abdomen. Between those two sensations, she can scarcely breathe. Margaery had been so good. She is now another beloved friend Brienne could not protect. “I’m so sorry,” she manages barely. “I know you were close.”

That they were close for a time… Brienne dares not think too hard of it.

Sansa draws inhales, deep and shaky. “Thank you.” Then she pauses again. “There is one last thing.”

Brienne’s brow furrows and she shakes her head. What news could yet remain? And would it shatter her completely? She cannot speak, but Sansa doesn’t force her to.

Sansa holds out her hand, the message she’s carrying now balanced in the middle of her palm. Still sealed, it sits there, a heavy weight for both of them. “Jon wished to open it. I would not let him. It is addressed to you.”

“Who is it from?” Brienne plucks it up carefully, like it might burn her. The seal is blank, but the red of the wax reminds her of another time, another place, another person, and another House. She daren’t hope, but hope she does. Freeing the seal with a flick of her thumbnail, she unrolls the piece of parchment.

Joy pierces the grief she will reel from for some time to come, forever maybe, for as long as she lives. But she would recognize the atrociousness of this penmanship anywhere and can have this one glimmer of happiness at seeing its scrawl on a bit of ragged parchment. _You will have heard the news by now. All is well, but do stay away from King’s Landing. - JL_

Sansa, who has learned far too much about the dangers of hearing the truth of things, doesn’t ask her from whom the message comes. Perhaps it is clear enough to her as it is.

There are few who disarm Brienne the way Jaime Lannister can.

“Brienne,” she says instead, “there is something I would ask of you.”

“Anything, Lady Sansa.” As she squares her shoulders, relief washes over her. A task, a mission, that is what she needs now. She would strike down the Night King if it was within her power to do so and Sansa asked it of her. “How might I serve?”

“There are few I can trust even here and if Cersei becomes a problem—” She pauses, as though she expects Cersei will be just that and sooner than anyone would like. “—I would like someone in King’s Landing who can relay that information to me.”

Grief strikes her again, this time entwined with longing. Honor compels her to protect Sansa. Honor compels her to obey Sansa’s desires. A small, very small, very _personal_ piece of her honor compels her to do as Sansa asks simply because it will bring her closer to Jaime again, Jaime who may be in need of assistance, Jaime who needs to understand just how dire things have become. The south is so different from the North. They still pretend that Winter is not a threat to them.

She would warn Jaime if she could.

And here, Sansa wishes to grant her that very chance and more.

It seems too good to be true.

“Milady, I cannot protect you from King’s Landing.” What she means is she doesn’t trust Littlefinger. And what she means is she doesn’t like how little the Stark bannerman respect her when they so easily love Jon Snow. The Boltons have taught her that the North is not so steady as its reputation suggests and Sansa is but a young woman still. Men would take advantage of her if they could. Even good men are capable of it.

“I don’t need protection.” Sansa’s chin lifts with determination. “Not as much as I need information.”

 _You sound like Littlefinger_ , she does not reply.

“Jon wouldn’t allow harm to come to me,” she adds, perhaps to assuage Brienne’s guilt. Foolish girl, Brienne thinks, for there is nothing in all of Westeros that could protect a person so thoroughly. Steel has hardened in Sansa’s veins, however, and Brienne has to admit that she has learned control and composure. And Jon is family. Brienne senses no treachery there. He will try to protect her the same as Brienne would. “I will order it of you if I must, Brienne.”

There is nothing she can do. She closes her eyes. She breathes in. She opens her eyes again. “I understand, milady, and I will do this for you.”

Sansa offers her a full, relieved smile, looking once again like herself.

Brienne can only hope she won’t regret not being more adamant.

*

The difference, when she arrives in King’s Landing, is immediately and viscerally startling, even just by stepping through the gates that protect the city. This is not the King’s Landing she remembers. The city’s outline is all wrong. Everything feels a little too close without the striking, startling spires of the Great Sept to watch over the realm. All has been cleaned up from what she can see, but there is yet a wound here, startling and strange.

The Red Keep stands sentinel, a testament to vicious strength and longevity and sheer audacity, even more prominent without the Sept to contend with. Only the Iron Throne is permanent, it seems to say just by continuing to exist when the Sept does not. Not even the Seven can protect its own from the crown’s wrath. It turns Brienne’s stomach to see its lack, to know that one person could cause this.

It is arrogant. And it is wrong. And Brienne must turn away before her gut finally rebels. How many died in Cersei’s madness?

How does Jaime feel knowing she’d done this?

“Excuse me,” she says, fully aware that she could be playing a dangerous game as she approaches the man guarding the gate through which she’s entered the city. Her eyes catch on the red cloak he wears, its color bright, the fabric crisp and unfrayed. She offers an awkward, lightning fast smile, not quite pleasant, and waves in acknowledgment.

“Who’re you then?” The guard’s voice is almost guttural in its suspicion, rusty with disuse. A rough, bruised hand wraps around the pommel of his sword. He is no more moved by her smile than she would have been in his place.

Brienne fights the urge to roll her eyes. “My name is Brienne. I’m searching for a sellsword by the name of Bronn. Do you know where he may be found?” She hopes she’s remembered his name correctly.

The man snorts and shrugs at the Red Keep. “I might.”

Her hand finds the small pouch hanging from her side. A gift from Sansa. The North is not a rich place, but it is richer than this man, that much is certain. She retrieves a handful of silver stags and holds them out to the man. “Could you get a message to him?”

“Fly a raven.” Sniffing, he can’t keep his eyes off the coins regardless.

“I would rather have a guarantee,” she says, freeing a few more stags from the pouch. “And discretion. Can you do that for me?”

“Fine.” Sweaty fingers pick each of the coins up one by one. “What’s the message?”

She gives the man a time and a place and hopes Bronn is as wily as his reputation suggests.

*

The tavern Brienne had chosen is raucous when she arrives. Men and women roar in conversation and spill drinks across one another and laugh as though their lives depend upon it. A frown and a sneer battle at the corners of her mouth. Her disdain is difficult to swallow back until a hand wraps itself around her shoulder and she suddenly has more important things to concern herself with.

Whipping around, she tears the hand from its hold on her. “Do not—”

But a familiar mouth is the first thing she sees, followed by familiar eyes, nose, and cheeks. The hair is a little longer than she remembers and there are new lines on his face, evidence of a pain she wouldn’t wish on most people. “By the gods,” he says, momentarily stunned as he searches her face. “You must be as awful at reading letters as I am at writing them.” When he grabs hold of her this time, she doesn’t shove him off. In fact, she allows him to push her toward the back where an empty table awaits. “What part of _stay away_ is so hard to grasp?”

“Neither,” Brienne answers, sliding onto one bench as Jaime took the other. She can’t even be mad at him. Just being near him again is more than she ever expected. Leaning forward, she lowers her voice. It’s likely unnecessary, but Brienne rather likes the intimacy of the action, the way Jaime instinctively leans in, too. “Lady Sansa wished for me to confirm the reports for myself. I could not disoblige her. I’m pleased to know that Bronn understood my message.”

Jaime shakes his head, lowers his eyes. There are hollows beneath them that she’s never noticed before, a sharpening of his features that is entirely new to her. “You should not be here. Cersei will—” His mouth twists into a disgusted frown and then all the fight seems to go out of him as he slumps forward, his golden hand dragging across the wood grain. “Cersei is…”

Brienne’s heart twists as she watches Jaime fumble for words to encompass the enormity of what Cersei has become. “Jaime.”

“She’s gone,” he insists. “She’s not the woman I remember her being. This is…” He lifts his head, looking so lost that Brienne cannot stop herself from reaching out and taking his hand. His callouses have softened, but his palm is warm, and just that simple touch causes her heart to race and her stomach to flip. It would be pleasant in other circumstances, something to savor, but now it merely adds to her guilt. There shouldn’t be any room for closeness when so much is at stake. “I’ve tried talking to her. I’ve _threatened_ her. Nothing gets through.”

He squeezes her hand and he tries to smile and she thinks maybe it doesn’t matter if they get through this or not so long as they have this. It’s a selfish thought and one that doesn’t become her, but she can’t bring herself to care.

“I have to _do_ something,” he says pulling out of her grasp. She is not so selfish that she tries to regain the contact. “I know it, but I don’t think I can. Not again.”

She swallows and has no response to give. There are no words she can offer that would make this right. They both know what he means though neither of them can say it.

He already bears the burden of the name Kingslayer. Here, he considers making himself Kin and Queenslayer, too. Would that be too much for him? Could he withstand it? She believes him capable of anything, but she’s not so sure he knows that about himself. “Come back with me to Winterfell,” she replies. “She doesn’t have to be your responsibility.”

“She’s my sister. She will tear Westeros apart if she can. No one is more responsible.”

Of course. Jaime’s sense of duty had always mirrored Brienne’s in most ways. It’s no different now. There can be no argument. She’d known this all along.

“Then we will get through this together.” She thinks of Sansa and believes that Jaime may be right about Cersei’s intentions. If Cersei is a threat to Westeros, she is a threat to Sansa, too. Brienne would stop her if necessary. She can justify this to herself, will let herself have this. If Jaime will have her, she will stay and gather as much information as Sansa could need. She will protect Sansa from here. She’ll save Jaime from bearing this alone.

She can do both.

Jaime’s brows furrow and he blinks a few times in quick succession; he looks away and looks back at her. The hand she’d held lifts and presses itself against her cheek. His thumb catches on the thin line of her lip. She doesn’t realize she’s leaning into the touch until he sucks in a breath and she sees that his eyes have darkened. “I shouldn’t be so glad you’ve come given the circumstances,” he admits, voice low and intimate, “but I am.”

His fingers slip down to her neck, curl against her armor, and pull her forward. She realizes what he’s doing only a moment before he does it, still mostly shocked when his mouth finds hers anyway. She’d wanted this for so long and had never expected to receive it. His lips are softer than she expects, though the scratch of his stubble is not. Having this happen in a tavern where anyone might see? Also something she hadn’t expected. “Thank you, Brienne,” he says, ending the kiss quickly for just that reason probably. His breath is warm against her chin and jaw as their foreheads touched. “For coming here.”

Always, she doesn’t say, but then again, she doesn’t think she needs to now.

He already knows.


End file.
